Love In An Elevator
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Margaret has the hots for Tig—or is it the other way round?


**Author notes**: Inspired by the older-not-dead community on Livejournal, though it doesn't fit their current theme. Sequel to a Alligator In The Elevator. Thanks to Tanaqui for betaing.

**Love In An Elevator**

**By Scribblesinink**

The elevator _dinged_ to a stop, having dropped only one floor down from where Tig had gotten on. He glowered as the doors opened. Christ, he wanted to get out of this damn place; there was a cold beer and willing pussy with his name on it back at the club house.

The woman who stepped into the cab, briefly acknowledging his presence with a nod, was about as far removed from the waiting sweetbutts as could be. But Tara's boss—Margaret, Tig recalled her name was—didn't seem fazed about being alone in the elevator with him, despite him giving her his most menacing stare. The one he'd perfected to make civilians quiver in their boots—or, in her case, low-heeled pumps, he noticed, glancing down.

She pushed the button for the second floor and the cab set off again—only to pull to a halt half a second later with a jolt strong enough to send her tumbling into him. "Whoa," she breathed, with a half-embarrassed chuckle, as she clutched his shirt for purchase.

Tig groaned. "Not fucking again!"

Margaret pitched her head back so she could look up at him. "It's not so bad, Mr—." She smiled knowingly. "Tig."

"Like hell—," he began, but there was something about the way she said his name that was—. Tig narrowed his eyes, peering down at her. In the greenish glow of the emergency lights, which had come on after the main ones had died along with the elevator, he recognized the gleam in her eyes. Shit, he should recognize it; he encountered it enough in the gazes of the club girls.

His lips curled up in a sardonic grin. _Like that, huh?_ Normally, people like her couldn't seem to get away from him fast enough—which was usually how he liked it. This time, though...

He purposefully let his gaze wander down her body. Although hidden under the ugly tweed of her suit, it seemed to be nicely shaped, thankyouveryfuckingmuch, with firm, round tits straining against the white silk of her shirt: not too big, not too small, but looking as if they'd fit perfectly in his palm. He let his gaze linger for a moment, enjoying how her chest seemed to rise and fall a little faster under the weight of his stare, before taking stock of the rest of her. Flat belly—would she have had kids?—but curvy hips that'd provide a good grip. And he already knew her legs were shapely. He imagined her wrapping those legs around him while he nailed her to the wall of the cab.

At last, dragging his gaze back up to her face, he saw his examination hadn't gone unnoticed, and had brought on the effect he'd been half expecting, half hoping for: mouth parted, pupils dilated, cheeks slightly flushed, she blinked up at him and wetted her lips.

Tig took a step forward, backing her up against the side of the cab, and planted one palm flat on the wall, right next to her head. "Last chance, darlin'." His voice was low, challenging her. He gradually leaned further forward, towering over her, but she stayed where she was, tilting her head back further as he came closer, her eyes never leaving his.

At last, he lowered his head, covering her mouth with his own. She opened up eagerly, tongue pressing against his. He chuckled softly, his free hand cupping one of her tits through the tweed. She arched forward into his grip in response, though he couldn't feel much through the thick material. Frustrated, he pulled back slightly so he could shove the jacket from her shoulders, before ripping her shirt open. The silk parted easily, buttons bouncing off the cab's walls and skittering across the floor. She let out a startled, "Oh!"

Her bra, like the rest of her outfit, was more practical than sexy. Tig glanced at it briefly, quickly figuring out it had a clasp at the back. He drew his brows down in annoyance. He hated those; they made for too much work to get at the goods.

Time for a shortcut: he fumbled for his knife strapped to his leg. Margaret's eyes widened as he brought it up, the glow from the emergency light reflecting off the blade. To her credit, she didn't shift away even now, though he thought her breath quickened a little. She definitely did gasp, a swift intake of air, when the cold metal touched her skin as Tig slid the blade underneath the bra between her tits. With a powerful tug, he sliced through the cotton; as the bra halves fell apart, her boobs came tumbling out.

Dropping the knife, not bothering to put it back in its sheath, he palmed her tits, his thumbs rubbing over the nipples until they hardened under his touch. His estimate had been right: they fit perfectly in his hands. He lowered his head further, nipping her skin, and felt her fingers tangle in his hair tightly, trying to guide him to where she wanted him. He resisted long enough to make her groan in frustration—couldn't have her think she was calling the shots, after all—before he gave her what she wanted, licking and sucking and then marking her with his teeth.

She let out a yelp, half pain, half pleasure, which send a jolt of lust through his own body. Holding her against the wall, one hand around her throat—she stilled at that, though he could feel her quiver with _need_—he rucked up her skirt with the other. Tugging down the white cotton panties he'd known she'd be wearing, he cupped her. She was hot and wet, and when he slipped two fingers into her pussy, she couldn't hold still any longer, her hips bucking against his palm. "Like that, huh?" he growled. Her reply was an incoherent mewling, and he sniggered smugly. Gone was the uppity hospital bureaucrat; instead, he'd unleashed a wanton woman begging for him to take her.

He was hard as a rock, throbbing and straining against his jeans. Withdrawing his fingers so he could free himself produced a disappointed whimper from her that made him smirk, and he quickly unzipped his pants—only to find the tables turned when she grabbed his cock impatiently, her fingers soft and firm and warm all at the same time, and he nearly came right on the spot. "Easy there, darlin'," he warned her. Lifting one of her legs, he pulled it up over his hip and shifted to position himself better. Then—.

Tig started upright, panting and gasping, clueless for a long minute as to where he was, and shivered at the cold air hitting his sweat-covered chest. What the—? Then he recognized the shape of the window behind the frayed curtains, the sky outside lightening with the oncoming dawn. He was home. In bed. _Alone_.

_Jesus fuckin' Christ._ Puffing out a lungful of air, he dropped back onto the pillow, before rolling over to grope for his smokes on the nightstand. Lighting up, he grumbled under his breath, "Goddamn stuck-up bitch." It was all _her_ fault, wasn't it?

After they'd eventually been freed from the damned elevator a few hours earlier, he'd gone straight back to the club house. But with most of his brothers off in Belfast, the party had already dwindled down to a few hangers-on and a couple half-drunk crow eaters. He'd glanced their way: both were young, dressed in the scraps of brightly colored material girls called clothes these days, with big tits that he didn't think were real, and long, bare legs molded into shape by six-inch heels. Exactly his type. Even so, he'd felt no desire.

"Not in the mood," he'd muttered, much to the girls' disappointment, before turning round and heading back to his bike. Sure, those sweetbutts might look like sex on legs now, but he knew from experience it wouldn't be long before their thighs thickened and their tits sagged and... Disgusted with himself as he caught on to where his thoughts were wandering, he cut them off and roared away, taking the corner out of Teller-Morrow a little faster than was wise.

And that was how he'd ended up here in his own bed, wide awake at some ungodly early hour, sporting wood and aching. Damn bitch. She'd done it on purpose, hadn't she? Flashing him those white panties and showing him those legs in their sheer stockings as she'd climbed up his body toward the hatch?

Blowing out a stream of smoke, he pondered the events of the night before. Had she been trying to tell him something? Unhappy bureaucrat wanting a tumble with a rough and dangerous biker? Grinning to himself, he stubbed the butt of the cigarette out in the ashtray and padded to the bathroom. He wouldn't mind helping her with that. Perhaps he should swing by the hospital again later today.

"Don't worry, darlin'," he muttered to himself, turning on the shower before searching for a clean towel, "Tig'll ride to your rescue." He chuckled at his own choice of phrase.

Little did he know how true those words would prove a few hours later—if not quite in the way he'd dreamed or would've wished for.

**Disclaimer**: this story is a transformative work based on the Fox 21/FX Productions/Linson Entertainment/Sutter Ink television series _Sons of Anarchy_. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without author attribution.


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